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She’d been starting to feel part of the family. Included. But he hadn’t shared this with her.
Why not?
“You need to talk to him about how you’re feeling, Izzy. About feeling angry—all of it.”
“No way!” Izzy jumped to her feet, panicked. “I can’t—you have no idea—there’s stuff—other stuff—”
“Okay, okay—” Flora lifted a hand “—but it might help to talk to someone.” And Flora knew for sure she wasn’t the right person. “How about Aunt Clare?”
Izzy stared at her, chest rising and falling as she breathed. “Aunt Clare?”
“Yes. She’s known you forever and she loves you. You could tell her everything that is on your mind. All of it. Get it off your chest. Even if she can’t help, I’m sure she’d be a good listener.”
Izzy didn’t answer for a minute. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Think about it.” Flora zipped up her backpack. “If nothing else, it might make you feel better to have shared it. Less alone.”
And what was she going to do?
Izzy wasn’t the only one who needed to talk.
She did, too.
18
Clare
Clare was up in the attic, braving dust and spiders when she heard her mother call up to her.
“What are you doing up there?”
“I’m looking for old photo albums. I know they’re up here somewhere.” Why was she so disorganized? She and Todd shoved everything that needed storing up here and there was no system. She’d come across baby clothes, toys and a pair of curtains she was fairly sure would never be hung by anyone anywhere. She badly needed to clear out but she was hopeless at throwing things away. Everything came attached to a memory. She’d just spent five minutes sighing over a scrapbook Aiden had made when he was four years old.
Todd had even talked about converting the loft into another habitable room but Clare couldn’t begin to get her head round the work involved.
Her mother’s head appeared at the top of the ladder. “Good lord, Clare. This place is a fire risk. I’ve never understood your inability to part with things. If you like, I’ll lend you my book on decluttering.”
“One person’s clutter is another person’s hidden treasure. I don’t like throwing things out in case I need them.”
“You don’t need any of this stuff, Clare. The fact that you can’t even find anything up here tells me you don’t need it.” Her mother brushed dust from her sleeve. “What photos are you searching for?”
“The ones of Becca and me when we were young. You shouldn’t be up here, Mum! We just spent four hours in the emergency department.” The laceration had been deep and required suturing. “You’re not supposed to get the dressing on your finger dirty.”
Her mother made a dismissive sound. “If you wanted to see photos, you should have asked me. I have most of them over at the Gatehouse.”
“Oh. That explains why I couldn’t find them up here.” Clare looked at the mess she’d created in her search. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should think about having a clear out. Next to her hand was a box of baby clothes, neatly folded. Why did she feel the need to keep everything? “I didn’t know you had photos. Why do you have them?”
“Because I didn’t want them vanishing in this space of yours. Photos are to be looked at and enjoyed, cried over and laughed over. They’re not supposed to add weight to someone’s ceiling. You boxed up all the photos ready to go into the loft, so I decided to take them with me when I moved.”
Clare sat down in the dust and stared at her mother. “Which photos?”
“Most of them are of our family, and your dad of course, but there are lots of you and Becca, too, over the years.”
“You’ve been looking at photos of Dad all alone and you didn’t tell me? Mum!”
“What? Life goes on, dear. We all have to find our own way. One of my ways is to look at the photos. It reminds me of all the good times we had. So many good times, probably more than I deserved. The photos help me.”
“I can’t bear to think of you looking at photos and feeling sad.”
